


Promise

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-21
Updated: 2006-07-21
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: November is a cruel, cruel month for Dean Winchester.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Promise  
Summary: **November is a cruel, cruel month for Dean Winchester.  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 3140  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean (can be Gen or Wincest)  
**Warnings:** Character death, unbeta'd, Wincest  
**Author Notes:** This goes back in time and flips back to the present at the end. Just so you aren't confused.  
  
**Before you go in, please take these. I think you will need them. *offers Kleenex, chocolate and love* Hold on tightly to them. Or something.**  
 

 

Dean buried Sam at midnight a thousand miles from home in the early days of the coldest November Dean could remember.

Dean didn’t like to think Sam was dead – he believed he wasn’t even digging this hole for his brother. Someone else. Someone he didn’t know. Someone he didn’t love. 

Dean liked to believe that Sam was in the Impala, waiting for him to finish with the grave of a nameless person they had burned because their soul was causing havoc.

That’s what it always was and Dean liked to believed it remained that way.

The ground was frozen – Dean can barely break through. The flashlight flickered from the branch. Snow picked up off the ground and melted on the back of Dean’s head. His fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel them anymore.

But he didn’t notice.

Dean kept digging to rid the fact that it was his brother in that casket. He kept digging so he didn’t have to realize that Sam wouldn’t be back in the hotel room, like he had always promised. Dean knew it was wrong to be putting Sam there – in that miserable place of a town, in that empty field that the he was granted permission to bury Sam in – but he couldn’t afford anything better. 

Maybe Dean died a little inside, knowing he couldn’t bury his own brother properly, but he hoped that Sam was at least happy that he wasn’t thrown into the ditch. Or a river. 

Maybe Dean died a little inside as he pushed the casket he had maxed out on three credit cards – the best he could get – and still it wasn’t enough for Sam. _Sammy_. He needed something better, deserved something better, but Dean knew it wasn’t possible. It would never be possible.

Little pieces of Dean seemed to die every day, with every move, every move that was performed without Sam by his side. Big pieces of Dean died when he saw things that reminded him of Sam – the laptop that he will never turn off, never part with; his clothes, the ones Dean liked to wear; someone who smiled like Sam – wide and carefree – and Dean wanted to ask if Sam was really ever gone at all.

Dean pulled consciously at Sam’s shirt, the one that was brushing against his skin underneath his leather jacket. He could smell Sam on the breeze. 

But, entirely, Dean died all together when he pushed the casket into the three foot grave, fingers bleeding raw from the shovel. He got the flashlight, shining it over the casket, gleaming from polish, snow and – now – Dean’s blood.

"You promised me Sam. You promised you’d never leave again."

It was November – the sixth day to be exact. Sam was exactly twenty four and a half years old. 

Dean watched the casket for a moment before taking the shovel and started to push the dirt back onto the box; each clump hit with a sick thud. 

Dean didn’t like to remember the fact that Sam was buried the same day as their mother.

\- - - 

Dean buried Sam without tears, without screaming and trying to shake his brother awake. He had tried that already. 

Dean buried Sam wondering if he should’ve locked himself inside. He didn’t know if he could make it without Sam. Dean wondered if he could’ve lost oxygen quick enough to catch Sam before he got to the other side, so he wouldn’t have to lose his brother again. Dean couldn’t stand losing Sam the first time; three times would break him.

Dean buried Sam five days after leaving a message for his Dad – a message that was never returned. Dean knew his Dad wouldn’t check – nothing important, because he never knew that his boys were coming home. Coming home so Sam could die there.

Dean buried Sam by himself, without anyone to help him say goodbye, without anyway to pack down the earth as he let himself cry. And that’s why he hadn’t cried.

Not just yet.

\- - - 

The morning Sam died...

__

The morning Sam died...

__

Dean couldn’t remember the morning Sam died.

All that counted – not what time it was or what was said or who went where – was that Sam was dead. Sam had died. Sam was gone.

Dean knew it was wrong to be angry, but grief didn’t look better in the long run. Anger was easier for Dean to accustom to, easier to handle. It was wrong, it was wrong, to be angry at Sam. He should’ve been angry at God, for taking Sam. He should’ve been angry at himself for letting it happen.

But he was angry at Sam. Angry that he never said goodbye.

\- - - 

For five days after, Dean never moved from his motel room.

It used to be his and Sam’s motel room, but nothing was ever going to be his and Sam’s anymore. Just his. Just Sam’s. Never theirs.

Dean left the door open; maybe Sam would’ve step through and chide him for leaving it open. Dean left his clothes on the floor – just his – so Sam would come in and pick it up for him.

Dean only wore one shirt – just Sam’s shirt. It never eased the pain, only made it worse, but Dean couldn’t take it off. He didn’t want to take it off. He didn’t think he ever would.

Dean was listening to Sam’s songs on the laptop – he didn’t know they were there. They drifted through his ears, lyrics unheard as he stared blankly out the door, where the words flew to mix in with the howling wind.

Snow drifted across the carpet, leaving it wet and slippery. Snow fell on Dean’s empty bed – just his – and over him. Over Sam’s shirt. Just Sam’s shirt.

For five days, Dean never slept or ate. For five days, people looked in the room – Dean becoming a spectacle – and he never noticed. For five days, Dean waited for Sam’s return. Waited for John’s reply. John’s emotional, apologizing reply.

But neither came. Dean didn’t expect them to. But for five days, he had hope that they would. 

\- - - 

The manager was the one who let Dean bury Sam in his field.

"You get the casket and whatever else you need, I’ll let you have the land." He was old – probably younger in age than in appearance. His hair was thin wisps of white slicked back to his pale head and Dean could only think of how he blended in well with November.

"No charge."

Dean looked out the window, watching the snow. It fell in fat clumps, obscuring a good view of anything but Dean could still see the stretcher, a gaggle of people watching with shocked expressions and the door wide open to his hotel room.

The manager sighed. "I know what you’re going through son."

Dean looked back at the man – somehow, he doubted it at that moment.

"Here’s the address." Dean was handed a sheet of paper with a messy scrawl and a warm smile, on the manager’s behalf. "Whenever you’re ready."

"I’ll never be ready," Dean answered quietly before stepping back outside just in time to catch the paramedics zip up the body bag and Sam’s pale blue face, purple tinged lips and dark eyelashes were all that Dean could catch before leaning against the wall, his legs weak.

"I’ll never be ready."

\- - -

It started when Dean decided not to care. Just for one moment, he didn’t pay attention to Sam and that was it.

"Dude, I don’t feel good."

Sam clutched his stomach, leaning against the wall for support. He had stumbled from their hotel room, face covered with sweat, in the middle of a Florida heat wave.

"Years of eating deep fried everything isn’t going to hold well with a salad Sammy."

That one moment and everything went wrong. Dean couldn’t make up that one moment where he didn’t care and for the next month, he couldn’t make it up. The fate he made for Sam was sealed.

Sam shook his head. "No. It’s worse than an upset stomach."

Dean looked up to see Sam staring at him warily; Sam was looking to his older brother for the answers.

"It’s the heat. Take a cold shower and you’ll be fine."

Sam nodded, accepting the idea and walked back into the bathroom. Dean continued unpacking their – it was theirs then – gear, shaking his head. 

Three minutes later, Sam was sprawled out on the hot linoleum, half undressed and cold water trickling into the drain of the tub. Three minutes later, Sam had fainted from the heat and his head had cracked open, spilling blood onto the floor.

Three minutes later, everything changed.

\- - - 

"He fainted."

Dean knew that – he wanted to know why Sam had fainted.

"It wasn’t the heat."

Dean knew that too. But why? Why is Sam in the hospital? Why is Sam unconscious? Dean just wanted to know why.

"It wasn’t the upset stomach."

Dean knew it was. Something was wrong. Something he ignored.

"The fall cracked his head open."

Dean looked at the doctors. "Of course he did! That’s why I brought him here!"

The doctors blanched. "We’re trying to fix it."

"Will he be okay? What’s wrong with him? Do you know?"

The doctors exchanged glances and hidden messages to each other through a secret code. 

"We don’t know."

\- - - 

"Am I dying?"

Sam – bloody and broken, but alive – asked the question the minute Dean stepped into his room. It was the first thing he had said, the nurses later informed Dean.

Dean bit his cheek, running a hand over Sam’s cheek. His thumb rested at the corner of Sam’s lips, callused fingers catching on the gauze wrapped tightly around Sam’s head. Sam frowned, pushing Dean’s hand away.

"Dean."

"No." Dean didn’t answer quickly. 

Sam looked at Dean for a moment, his face unreadable and then shifted away from Dean.

The doctors hadn’t told Dean anything yet.

\- - -

"Am I dying?"

Sam sat up in his bed, holding firmly onto the metal bars for support. His face was white and serious, demanding answers Dean wasn’t sure he could give.

Dean looked up from his magazine – his eyes first rested on the monitor, steady at a normal heart rate. He looked to Sam, who looked at him. A strand of hair had sneaked from underneath the gauze.

"No," Dean answered with a smile.

Sam tried to smile back.

The doctors hold Dean that Sam was doing fine – but they lied.

\- - - 

"Am I dying?"

There was a hint of humor in Sam’s voice when he asked. His eyes sparkled with youth and he smiled without Dean having to first.

Dean paused in the door, trembling fingers grasping lightly to the frame.

"Yes," Dean answered in a somber, quiet voice.

Dean watched Sam’s face fall. His fingers curled into the bed sheets, his eyes widened and Dean had to look away. Dean watched a nurse down the hall taking a cup of medication into a room, disappearing and he let the sound of death and sickness wash over him.

"Dean?" His voice was trembling and timid. He was scared. So scared.

The doctors had told Dean that morning.

"Nothing we can do..."

"... too far in, last stage, terminal..."

"... only a few weeks..."

"... sorry, truly sorry."

\- - - 

"Will you take me home?" Sam was tucked into a blanket tightly; he was staring straight ahead, his body greying and slack. He was weak, so weak from the disease that plagued his body.

Sam was never supposed to die like this. It was supposed to be quick, a bullet wound to heart or peacefully in his sleep when he was old and ridiculed for telling inane stories of his hunting trips on demons and ghosts.

"Home?" The word cracked in two, making Dean sound like a child going through puberty again. 

Sam scratched at the gauze, wincing as he pushed too hard. Dean wondered if Sam’s head would ever heal. "To bury me."

Dean’s foot hit the brake; a car horn blared through the closed windows, over Metallica on the radio and Dean’s ringing head. 

__

Home. Home to bury Sam.

__

Dean looked out the window, fingers tightening on the wheel and his mouth betraying his shock by hanging open. He wasn’t going to bury Sam. He was never going to bury Sam. It wasn’t right – Dean was older. Sam was going to bury him.

But Dean couldn’t seem to tell Sam that.

"Dean, promise to bury me at home. Next to mom," Sam pleaded, his body shaking and long fingers, so nimble and weak, grasping onto Dean’s. His touch felt like cool air against Dean’s skin and Dean wasn’t sure for a moment if Sam was even there.

It was taking over so quickly. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

__

Home. Home, where Mom’s buried. Next to Mom. Sam next to Mom. Both dead.

__

"I want to die at home."

__

Home... go home. Home, to let Sam go.

__

"I promise."

\- - - 

Dean knew the end was nearing when Sam didn’t speak to him anymore.

Sam hadn’t spoken to Dean before; when they were fighting, when Dean said something wrong, when Dean didn’t let Sam lay near him. It was all induced by hatred, anger and impatience. 

But this time, it was different. Sam’s body was dying, slowly. He wasn’t supposed to die slowly. He wasn’t supposed to die painfully. He was Sam – Dean’s Sam, raised to be strong and stubborn on his own will.

Dean could tell by the look in Sam’s eyes that his will was fading into black; Dean knew Sam wanted it to end. To get rid of the torment of having to move an inch to be more comfortable. The effort it took to breath normally. The pain he felt trying to keep his eyes open to watch Dean watch him.

But it was painful for Dean; painful to have to watch Sam die in different hotel rooms across the country as they raced back to Lawrence. Back home where Sam could surely die. Where Sam would die.

Dean hoped they never made it to Lawrence, because Sam was holding onto that hope of dying in Lawrence and maybe, if they never got there, Sam would never leave.

"Promise," Sam choked out one day, catching Dean off guard.

Dean knew he couldn’t – his own greed and Sam’s fading strength was proof enough that he couldn’t keep the promise.

"I know Sam, I know."

\- - - 

They were twenty miles from Missouri state line when Sam died.

"Tomorrow Sam, tomorrow we will lay in bed all day," Dean told his brother as he carried him in from the car and laid him on the bed.

Sam smiled weakly, eyes already closed. Dean wasn’t sure if they had opened in the last few days. His eyes were closed most of the time too.

"We won’t move, we won’t speak." Dean toed off his shoes, tore off his jacket and crawled in beside Sam, pulling the covers of him and his bundled brother. "We’ll lay here, all day. Holding each other." Dean pulled his brother close, wrapping his arms around Sam’s fragile body. He pressed his face against Sam’s, breathing deeply so the tears fighting in his eyes would go away. "Just like this."

Dean felt Sam smile against his cheek tentatively and small; Sam’s trembling fingers found Dean’s face blindly. His eyes opened, only for a second, staring into Dean’s eyes, fingers brushing against Dean’s cheeks. 

Sam managed a nod and a kiss on Dean’s chest. He let his hands rest where they fell, pushing back into Dean; their legs – it was theirs then – intertwined around each other. Sam sighed, content and peaceful.

Dean let his tears fall, resting his chin on the top of Sam’s head.

"Tomorrow, Sammy, tomorrow..." Dean whispered, hoping Sam would hear him.

But Dean knew he had already gone; Sam wasn’t shaking and no rattling breaths escaped his lips. He was still in Dean’s arms, cold as always and Dean was sure he could feel the last ounces of heat seep into his veins.

Dean looked down at Sam, blinking away the tears. Sam didn’t look up, he didn’t move. 

"Tomorrow Sam," Dean mumbled into his brothers ear. "We’ll be together tomorrow."

Dean knew he’d always be waiting for tomorrow to arrive.

\- - - 

It was the maid who had found them, wrapped so close – Dean breathing in a restless sleep. Sam not breathing in endless sleep.

She screamed loudly, waking Dean. Sam didn’t wake.

She screamed for help as Dean pulled away, stepping from under the covers. Sam didn’t follow – he lay still and cold on the bed, molded to Dean’s shape. The way he left the world.

Dean grabbed the maid’s shoulders and held her straight so she would look him in the eye. She stopped screaming when he smiled, tired still.

"He’s happier now," Dean explained. He looked back at his brother; the smile flickered for a moment. "Do you understand?"

She nodded, though she never really did.

Dean knew she wouldn’t.

\- - -

They were thousands of miles from where Sam wanted to be and Dean was walking away, shutting off the flashlight and throwing the shovel into the back of his car. Just his. 

Not theirs. Not his and Sam’s.

Dean started the car, knowing he couldn’t keep his promise. A big part of him died every time he thought about it – he never knew which part was dying, just any part. Sam’s last request and Dean couldn’t keep it.

November blew past Dean as he sat in the Impala, watching the tilled earth be covered with snow and no one would know Sam was there. No one but him. 

Dean backed out of the field, looking over his shoulder and for one last time, Sam’s grave was bathed in light and that was the end. Dean knew there was no going back. Nothing could be changed.

Tearing onto the highway, Dean told himself Sam was gone. Gone for good. Gone, never to return. Not in California, not down the hall, but gone.

And Dean was gone too.

 


End file.
